


An economy of movement, not emotion

by TetrodotoxinB



Series: Whumptober 2020 [20]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Day 20, Head Injury, I'm sure someone is going to say, Stitches, Whumptober 2020, and guess what, and had fun, concussion, dislocated shoulder, fall - Freeform, field medicine, hey that's not how that works, i took what liked from video game lore and the TV show, thrown from horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27113767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Jaskier cares very much about Geralt's well being. The problem is that it tends to backfire spectacularly.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947493
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	An economy of movement, not emotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dickgrysvn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickgrysvn/gifts).



> Many thanks to [aravenwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood) for her extreme kindness in being willing to beta all of these whumptober fills! Especially so since she's also writing her own (amazing!) fics too! Please go check her out and give her some love!!!

Jaskier drums his fingers on the body of his lute. He’s been sitting here with Roach for hours now and it’s long past noon. Geralt should be back — after all it’s not like noonwraiths come out just before dusk. 

“Well, Roach. We know where he’s gone. Why don’t we go see if we can find him?” Jaskier says, slinging his lute around to his back. He climbs into the saddle and Roach snorts quietly but otherwise doesn’t complain as they set off down the road towards the wheat fields.

It’s not too far and Jaskier knows they’re getting close because he can see the mill at the river. Two more hills ahead is where Geralt was headed. But the moment they cross the treeline into the fields, Roach balks.

“Easy, girl, easy. Come on, now. It’s not far,” Jaskier coaxes.

He turns the reins back toward the road ahead of them and Roach rears up, tossing Jaskier off her back and off the road. There’s a horrible _sproing_ as he lands on his lute and the pain comes a moment later, his shoulder and head flaring in unison. Jaskier watches Roach stamp on the dusty road and he tries to get up but he’s too disoriented. He finds that it’s easier to simply take a nap.

*****

Geralt trudges down the path back to Jaskier. The wraith had proven stronger than Geralt had anticipated and he had to cast Yrden six separate times before he managed to make her corporeal. But even that didn’t make it easy, her mirrors flitting around him, outside the area of his sign, and the dust in the air making it hard to see. Despite it all, Geralt did finally manage to run her through with his silver sword. It only took him seven hours.

Geralt’s ready for a nice fire, dinner, and some sleep though he wishes he had the time or the coin to buy dinner and a room at the inn instead. But Jaskier’s waiting for him, and more importantly, so is Roach.

Up ahead on the road, Geralt sees Roach but not Jaskier in the growing gloom. He quickens his pace and as he crests another hill he can see that Roach is bumping her nose against something on the ground. 

“Fuck.”

Geralt breaks into a full run, worried that in his absence the idiot bard managed to get into some sort of trouble. As he gets closer, Roach whinnies and stamps, nudging Jaskier’s prone form more vigorously. 

“Easy, girl,” Geralt says, patting the mare softly. 

He rapidly turns his attention to Jaskier who is awake but not entirely lucid. “Jaskier, what happened?” Geralt asks. 

He rolls Jaskier over, pulling a limp arm from beneath him along with the remains of his beloved lute. Jaskier screams, his back arching as Geralt manipulates his arm, and then he vomits. Geralt makes sure to tip Jaskier’s head to the side so he doesn’t choke. 

“Breathe, Jaskier,” Geralt orders. He waits a moment until Jaskier seems to calm down and then asks again, “Jaskier, what happened?”

“Fell,” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt could ask “off of what” but there’s a horse standing next to them so it’s not hard to sort that himself. He could also ask “why” but then with Jaskier there’s often no sensible reason for his actions that Geralt has noticed.

Instead, he focuses on looking Jaskier over. The most obvious injuries are the head wound, which while no longer bleeding, will require stitches and has left an enormous lump on the side of his head, and Jaskier’s right arm which is dislocated at the shoulder. He pats down Jaskier’s chest for broken ribs and checks under his shirt for any bruising on his abdomen. None of his other joints seem to be dislocated and no bones seem to be broken which, given the position in which Geralt found him, is no small wonder.

“I’m going to reduce your shoulder,” Geralt warns. Jaskier blinks blearily up at Geralt, the information clearly not yet having permeated Jaskier’s concussion-induced fog. He decides that, before Jaskier understands, he might as well just get on with it and he pulls the arm out to the side until he feels a _pop_ and the arm turns, moving into a more natural position. Jaskier shouts again in pain, his eyes bunching closed and this time he only dry heaves a bit. 

It’s nearly fully dark now, though Geralt still has the advantage of witchers’ eyes. But mutation enhanced eyes don’t make him less tired or build them a campfire, much less trap dinner, something it looks like they’ll be doing without this night. Still, a campfire is in order and with the moon rising it’s not safe near the fields — too many men and animals nearby, to say nothing of the risk of nightwraiths. Geralt slides his arms under Jaskier and picks him up like a fainted bride, and they set off down the road back to the woods. With a soft click of his tongue, Roach follows behind. 

They don’t need to go too far. The woods are thick, thick enough to provide shelter on a rainless night and to obscure them from the road. Geralt lays Jaskier on the leaf litter and gathers some wood for a small fire. There’s nothing to eat, but the fire is for light more than warmth. Using his water skin, Geralt washes the sticky blood from the side of Jaskier’s head and brushes debris out of the wound. It’s a long cut, about the width of Jaskier’s palm, but thankfully his head seems to have glanced off the rock rather than landed full force since his skull, which is very much visible, isn’t broken open.

Jaskier moans, writhing in pain as Geralt works, but it’s not hard to pin Jaskier’s head to the ground. It undoubtedly hurts quite a bit but both of them would prefer this to heal cleanly rather than become infected in several days. With the wound clean, Geralt gathers his meager medical supplies. Though Jaskier is now fully awake, Geralt doesn’t bother telling him to hold still because he wouldn’t anyway. Geralt simply threads his needle and begins sewing. 

“Fuck!” Jaskier mutters. 

“Mmm,” Geralt answers. 

“Stop it! It hurts!” Jaskier pleads.

“No.”

Geralt, after his long years on the Path, is quick and efficient and it’s only a matter of fifteen minutes before all the stitches are tied in place. He smears an unguent on the wound, something he started carrying once Jaskier became a regular travelling companion since he heals slower and can’t use any of Geralt’s potions. 

“There,” Geralt finally pronounces.

Jaskier blinks up at Geralt in the firelight, his eyes wide in the dark. “There what?”

“I’m done,” Geralt clarifies.

Jaskier harrumphs. “You’re not very gentle.”

“You shouldn’t have tried to ride Roach,” Geralt chides.

“I was worried about you. It was nearing dark and you weren’t back yet,” Jaskier explains. 

“And what were you going to do? Fight a noonwraith with your lute?” Geralt asks as he packs his medical supplies away.

“I don’t know. I was going to figure it out when I got there,” Jaskier says, pouting like a child.

Geralt continues cleaning up, washing his hands with a few drops of their water and carefully storing the fine silver needle back in its pouch. He’s struck at Jaskier’s foolhardy attempts to help him. If he had managed to show up while the noonwraith was still a danger, Geralt might not have been able to save him. But the fact of the matter is, Jaskier knows the dangers. Jaskier knew well enough that he could die going after Geralt and yet he chose to anyway. Geralt isn’t sure what to make of that.

While Jaskier rests quietly on a bedroll, something that in and of itself is concerning, Geralt sets up their meager camp. He collects wood and water, and uses a spare tunic to bind Jaskier’s arm tightly to his chest. It’ll help, but Jaskier will still be weeks before he can properly use his arm again, and Geralt knows that even then it won’t ever be the way it was. That it might interfere with Jaskier’s lute playing isn’t something either of them deign to speak of just yet. 

In any case, Geralt will ride into town tomorrow and collect the coin, assuming the villagers still intend to pay him, and buy them some bread to go with whatever game Geralt can kill. Jaskier will need another day, maybe two, before he’s fit to travel, and Geralt knows that even then it’ll be slow going. But despite the annoyance, it’s time that Geralt is willing to wait. 

Twenty years ago, Geralt would never have taken the luxury of several days time to wait on a wounded travelling companion, at least not one who did little else besides sing in taverns and fuck the locals. Now though, Geralt finds himself oddly concerned with the nattering bard’s well-being. Ever since Viscena left Geralt on the side of the road, he’s told himself that all he needed to survive was himself, but he finds life to be less empty and work more meaningful with a companion. 

He glances over at Jaskier. He’s sleeping now, his hair still half-matted with blood. _Witchers don’t feel._ He’s said it a thousand times and yet Geralt knows that on some level it’s a lie. Because he never feels more than when Jaskier is there.


End file.
